Psalm 12 (Salvum me fac)

Lord, helpe, it is hygh tyme for me to call,
No men are left that charity doth love:
Nay, ev'n the race of good men are decai'd.

Of things vaine with vaine mates they babble all;
Their abiect lipps, no breath but flattry move,
Sent from false hart, on double meaning staid.

But thou, O Lord, give them a thorough fall:
Those lyeing lipps from cosoning head remove,
In falshood wrapt, but in their pride displaid.

Our tongues, say they, beyond them all shall goe:
We both have pow'r, and will our tales to tell:
For what lord rules our brave embolden brest?

Ah! now ev'n for their sakes, that tast of wo,
Whom troubles tosse, whose natures need doth quell;
Ev'n for the sighes, true sighes of man distrest:

I will gett up, saith God, and my help show
Against all them, that against hym do swell:
Maugre his foes, I will him sett at rest.

These are Gods wordes, Gods words are ever pure:
Pure, purer then the silver throughly tride,
When fire seav'n tymes hath spent his earthy parts.

Then thou (O Lord) shalt keepe the good still sure:
By thee preserv'd, in thee they shall abide:
Yea, in no age thy blisse from them departes.

Thou sees't each side the walking doth endure
Of these badd folks, more lifted up with pride,
Which if it last, wo to all simple harts.